


To Walk a Path of Glass

by Mr_Skurleton



Series: Keeper of Secrets [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evanuris, Eventual Fluff, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn, eventual post trespasser, maybe smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15436149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Skurleton/pseuds/Mr_Skurleton
Summary: Things are not looking good for Inquisitor Lavellan. There's an ancient darkspawn magister who wants his hand, he's been put in charge of a growing band of misfits flying a shemlen god's banner, his memory and his emotions are all out of place and now there's word out of Ferelden of yet more trouble. What's an elven mage to do besides flirt with the flashy tevinter altus and try to stitch the world back together?Reworked... again. Starts at chapter 2.





	1. No Rest for the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> Had this up for a bit, took it down and am now re-uploading it as I've decided to work on it again. First few chapters haven't changed but plot and direction have. If you're interested then strap in. Things are going to get strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have decided to make this version match with the one posted over on ff net and thus have the story proper begin at Skyhold.

He really was fetching. 

From the sultry curl of moustache gracing full lips to the way the mid afternoon sun would play through the sable locks curled just across his brow. And the spill of those same golden rays down one side of his sculpted face? Highlighting in such rich detail that his skin practically glowed bronze? Perhaps it would not have been so unbelievably unfair if that were the end of it. But no, there was always more. There was the languid way he rested in his worn wingback chair, ankles crossed out in front of him, his masculine jaw resting on agile fingers with some dust ridden tome in his lap. He even made the simple act of working the kinks from his neck appear refined and elegant. A human, from Tevinter no less, really had no business being so damn attractive. 

But that was Dorian in a nutshell wasn’t it? Defying every expectation pinned to him with effortless grace and mocking eyes. A mage so unlike any other that Lavellan was tempted to coin a wholly new word just so people would never confuse the two. For Dorian was flare and fire in equal measure. To see him in a fight was to know the beauty of flame in more forms then the inquisitor could even name. Dorian knew it of course, every spell was a show whether it was lighting a candle with a snap of fingers or torching a hurlock at fifty paces. The man exuded charm like most people breathed and his laugh was like velvet on the spine.

But the most surprising thing Cey had come to learn about the inquisition’s oh so lovely altus was that he was an excellent listener and a caring soul beneath that wit and smirk. Not that Cey had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the sweet curve of Dorian’s lips or anything…

The elf himself, was lounging on the three inch wide railing that overlooked the entirety of the tower. It was the perfect spot really, sitting to the side meant that were Dorian to look up, Cey could feign interest in the birds nearest him or in Solas’ paintings. Or if he was feeling particularly motivated, Cey could even chat with Leliana… given that this level was all hers anyway.

“You could go speak with him.” 

Little over a month since the fall of Haven and Leliana had already stuffed the place with cages, perches and birds to go with them. And that wasn’t counting the scouts that were constantly running up and down the narrow stairwell. Cey wondered if Leliana had that as part of her recruitment regime, all applicants must be able to jog up and down stairs with the utmost efficiency. Still, it was a prime location for her, suited almost suspiciously to her needs. From here the inquisition’s spymaster could hear all and see all in a manner of speaking, and it was she who now addressed him from behind her surprisingly empty desk. 

“I will, in a bit.” He shifted slightly to the right, until the post he leaned against was no longer pressing directly on his spine. Haven had done a real number on his back and it made his old favored slouch not nearly as comfortable now. Yet, with one foot on the rail itself and the other serving as balance, this was about his favorite seat in Skyhold. Mostly because if people thought he was speaking with the Nightingale they tended to leave him alone. Well, as alone as one can be with a dozen cawing ravens hanging feet from you. “Besides I did actually come up here to speak with you, not just to oogle.”

Though it was difficult, Cey did finally pry his attention away from watching the book-absorbed altus enough to regard her fully. Leliana on the other hand continued to read the report she’d been handed just as Cey had first taken a seat on her rail. It was part of why he’d indulged himself his rubbernecking, turning a polite wish to not interrupt her into an advantage. 

“You should have said so then. I’m not so busy that we can’t speak.” She cast the page down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in her chair with a weariness that ran right down to the bone. Not that she’d say it of course. Oh no, Leliana played everything close to the vest to the point where most of it was probably under the vest… maybe under her ribs too. But that didn’t mean she had no sense of humor, or that she didn’t enjoy teasing in her own way. As her eyelids closed for a moment and her head tilted to rest against the back of her chair the ghost of a smile tugged the sides of her mouth. “Besides, you should learn to carry a conversation with someone while watching another. It could be of great use to you.” 

“You’ll have to teach me that one. You know, sometime inbetween saving the empress and tracking down the grey wardens.” Cey let his weight tip to his right and gravity to pull him from the railing into a fluid stroll. Practice had perfected that little move and one of these days he was going to try it out on an audience. A very specific one. But not right now, now he had an ex bard to look after. One that he owed a great deal to. “If we both give up trivial things like eating and sleeping I’m sure we’ll have the time.” 

“Hopefully before we set foot in Halamshiral,” she chided with a cluck of her tongue and twist of her accent. “Give such long looks in those halls and all of Thedas will know who our Inquisitor pines for. Very dangerous knowledge in the right hands.” Her left eye opened just enough so that Cey could feel the sharpness of the look.

“First, I do not pine, I was admiring. Pining implies intent and intimacy. Things I should get to enjoy before I’m accused of them.” Cey’s mock indignance tasted almost real and earned him a ‘hmph’ from Leliana. “And second, I just don’t see a point in trying to hide anything from you. Too time consuming.” He let a shrug roll through his shoulders as he took a seat on a clear corner of her desk and folded one knee over the other. “Everyone else though? Not even a challenge, except for maybe Bull. But he watches Dorian just as much as I do so maybe he’ll be too distracted to notice?” 

Leliana just slowly shook her head and let her arms rest across her lap. They wouldn’t discuss the dark circles both of them wore just beneath the eyes. Nor would the subject of Redcliffe or Haven be brought up beyond status reports and a planned memorial. Words would after all, do no good for either subject so what was the use of asking now? 

Cey had once… on the second night after they’d arrived in Skyhold. He’d climbed all those stairs with honeyed wine (though he couldn’t remember why he’d thought to bring it) and found Cullen and Leliana exchanging barbed words. He’d asked then, a hand on her shoulder, words meant to soothe her misplaced guilt. And it had seemed enough, she’d let him take the list of those they’d lost. His argument that he should be the one to write those letters, had met with no resistance. But as he’d noted time and again, the Nightingale played everything close to the vest. 

“Good, glad we agree. Now, scout Charter said you had word on my clan?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midnight battlements and no rest for the weary. Cey stared down into the dizzying depths of the valley below Skyhold and noticed none of it. Too up in his own thoughts to concern himself with frozen slopes and shadowed lake no matter how picturesque they might appear in pools of clear starlight. 

No, his mind was in his pocket, folded between the creases of a letter. The same place it had been since Leliana had passed him said letter and he had read said letter, running the maze of Keeper Istimaethoriel’s deft penmanship and the meaning therein. That had been hours ago, and he’d somehow made it down from the rookery, through the main hall, up onto the ramparts and all the way to the top of an empty tower without a single person interrupting him. Cey would have been amazed were he in any state of mind to notice it. 

His fingers were numb against the rough stone, too long in the gelid air, not enough layers between his skin and the night’s chill. He hadn’t even grabbed his coat and as his stomach was quick to remind, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast either. Too busy chewing on a single line “The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match.” 

He folded his arms, worried his lower lip and unfolded them again, rapping his knuckles against the stone until they threatened to bleed. And when that brought no more answers than the last time he’d done it, he paced. Ten strides left, ten strides right. Careless fingers running through his mane of mist-gray hair, eyes fixed forward and seeing only the weather beaten stone he tread on. 

“Now there’s the look of a man who could use a drink.”


	2. What's in a Name

He really was rather odd.

Slender slip of a man from sharp ear tip to nimble footfall. If the maker had truly chosen him then the design had been one of acute angles and keen edges. His piercing eyes had gone wide for a split second and then narrowed the next. Even with the softening of shadow across high cheekbones and pointed chin the herald looked wild. No more tame than the mass of hair trailing to his hips and near writhing in the stiff breeze rising from below. Of course startling him probably hadn’t helped.

Not that Dorian had planned to. He’d been positive Lavellan would have heard the creak of his weight on the ladder rungs or when he opened the door before that. The fact that he hadn’t? Disturbing.

Lavellan killed the sparks crawling up his finger tips with a shake of his hand. It took a bit longer for his shoulders to come down out of their squared stance and for him to straighten out of the half crouch he’d slipped into. “Apologies, I didn’t hear you come up.”

“Yes I’d gathered that much already. Though it is nice to sneak up on you for once instead of having it the other way around.” Dorian tried desperately to keep the note of humor in his voice from turning smug. It would be terrible to sour the moment by gloating too much. A compromise then, he strolled past Lavellan until he reached the other side of the roof, dusted off a likely spot against a parapet and sat upon its edge. A fold of his arms, a finger along his jaw and the look was complete. Perfectly casual, a take it or leave it invitation.

Lavellan had of course watched him the entire time, something Dorian had been counting on. With an archdemon-wielding ancient darkspawn running amok in the world, few things could be considered certain. But the herald’s gaze lingering on him whenever they were alone? Always. The man was not exactly subtle when there was no one around to put a show on for. 

Not that Dorian minded, Lavellan was utterly discreet at all other times and it was awfully nice to be admired so thoroughly. But Dorian wasn’t going to tell him that. Oh no, he rather preferred to be the chased party and there were unspoken rules about telling your pursuer that you enjoyed the attention. They might become complacent or think their prize easily claimed. He couldn’t let that happen now could he? That and it might be a bit early to assume he knew the mind of the Inquisitor.

But now was not the time for such musings as something was clearly eating Lavellan from the inside out. The man had after all, walked right past him in the library without even a polite hello or good afternoon. Even after ogling him from the rookery. Oh yes, Dorian had noticed that too. One of the first lessons he’d learned when it came to surviving Tevinter politics. The art of noticing someone noticing you without letting them know that you’ve noticed. And he’d picked the inquisitor’s pattern out pretty quickly. He’d watch for a bit, stop by the researcher’s alcove to collect their latest finding or give them something new to work on and then eventually ‘wander’ Dorian’s way for a chat.

But when Dorian had stood from his chair, intent on finally saying something so lascivious that Lavellan would have no choice but to completely gobsmacked? The elven mage had strolled right past him without so much as a glance, his nose buried in a thin sheet of parchment. Dorian would have merely thought the man busy were it not for the tremble of his hand and the worry clear as day on his face. The same worry still dancing there, just beyond the mask he was trying to hide it behind. 

“Well you do make the most interesting noises when you’re startled,” Lavellan countered. But the ease with which he normally spoke was missing, chased off by the strain still pushing him off to one side while he fidgeted with a sleeve. “It makes it hard to resist.”

“I suppose I might forgive you that. I am after all, irresistible in many ways.” Perhaps he should just ask. Or at least offer the man a reason to get off this blasted roof. How could he stand being out here without a coat. Had he been out here all this time? How was he not freezing already? “And I would happily tell you all about them if you’d care to join me for a drink.” 

Lavellan stiffened further, casting his gaze over his shoulder and then to the floor before shaking his head. “I’d make for poor company at the moment.” 

“Nonsense,” Dorian pushed a little harder. “In fact I insist.” He’d steer the man down to the tavern physically if he had to. Or perhaps throw him over a shoulder, he did after all, look like he weighed less than the staff he carried. 

Lavellan’s hands went up in defeat and as if to add insult to injury his stomach growled like a disgruntled cat. 

“And food I suppose. Can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach, you’d be no use to anyone come the morning.” 

The inquisitor simply groaned at that, quite content to not speak of it at all as he followed Dorian back down the ladder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“So you’re worried you made the wrong choice?”  
Dorian was reclining in a plush, lowback chair with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a platter of fruit and cheeses in front of him. Across the table slumped the Herald.

“Mmm. Worse than that,” Cey admitted, rolling a plum back and forth across his upturned palm. He’d eaten enough to appease his stomach but only just. He wasn’t even looking at Dorian while he spoke, feet propped up on the nearby railing, gaze lost somewhere out in the rest of his room. 

“How so?” When Dorian had suggested grabbing something to eat and more importantly, to drink, he had meant at the tavern. He hadn’t pictured raiding the kitchens in the dead of night nor that he’d be invited up to the Inquisitor’s private quarters. Yet that was precisely what had occurred. And here he sat, on a narrow balcony set into the wall above the inquisitor’s bed trying to suss out the root of the Herald’s problem. well, one of them at least. 

“Several things if I’m honest. But mostly the fact that these ‘bandits’ are so well armed and seem fixated on my clan.” Cey sipped at his wine absently, his mind a million miles away.

“Because it might indicate they’re more than simple thugs,” Dorian surmised, though he’d suspected it far earlier when the Herald had first told him what the letter was about. “And if that’s the case then it becomes a question of why.”

Cey inclined his head in affirmation and sank lower in his chair. 

“And the answers to that question are all terribly grim I take it?”

Another nod, this time with a grimace as Cey elaborated, “If they aren’t bandits and the attacks are deliberate then the most reasonable assumption is that the clan is being targeted in an effort to get at the inquisition. Which means my family is in danger because of me. Just like all those we lost in Haven.”

There it was, a glimpse of the real panic shadowing his face. No wonder the man had paced for hours if these were the thoughts running through his head. Dorian sat his glass down and carefully chose his next words.  
“And unlike Haven, you can’t be around to drop a mountain on the villain's head should things ‘go south’, as they say.”

“Not unless you know some spell that allows me to be in two places at once.” 

“You never know, if travelling through time is possible then who’s to say duplicating a living being isn’t? But sadly no, I have no such trick up my sleeve.” 

“Of course not. You’d have to actually wear sleeves first wouldn’t you?” Cey had meant to lighten the mood and failed. Wincing at the bitterness of his own voice he pulled himself up and sat both fruit and cup back on the table. Dorian didn’t deserve the ire Cey felt for himself. “Ir abelas…”

But Dorian waved what he was sure was an apology away. “I don’t speak elven but I can guess. And you should be, calling into question my perfect sense of fashion? The most grievous of crimes, people have been stripped and flogged for less I’m sure.” 

Cey scoffed and rolled his eyes but he also smiled so Dorian took it as a victory, at least for now.

“Though if I were you, I’d be more concerned about what Leliana’s going to do to you.” Dorian feigned contemplation just as he saw Cey’s brow arch in question. “For doubting her abilities of course. A bard is known by their reputation after all. So implying you alone could do a better job then all her agents in Wycome combined is bound to ruffle a feather or two.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” Cey didn’t look entirely convinced, in fact he appeared to deflate a bit. Elbows on the table, one hand over the other with the nail of one thumb inbetween his teeth. “But if the course is wrong. If Leliana’s people do fail or don’t get there in time. If it is because of my involvement in the inquisition… It won’t be like Redcliffe, no magic amulet to send me back if things don’t work out.”

“That’s a lot of if’s you realize,” Dorian was quick to point out, “And I’m a little concerned with your lack of confidence in your own judgement.” He gestured to the room around them and more specifically to Skyhold as a whole. “From what I understand of it, you had this all fall in your lap. Yet here we all are, a motley band fighting for a common cause and under a single banner. Your banner. If you don't trust your own judgement then at the very least you should trust mine. I do after all, have excellent intuition.”

Finally he had managed to coax a full smile out of the elf. A little shaky around the edges but there and that would have to do seeing how late the hour was. Wouldn’t do to be seen leaving the Herald’s chambers after the sun rose, people might talk.  
“And on that note my dear Inquisitor I think I shall take my leave. I’m an absolute terror if don’t get my beauty rest.” Dorian stood, smoothed invisible creases from the leather he wore and made to move past Cey’s chair.

A journey interrupted when Cey’s hand alighted on his forearm and the elf caught him with those helio blue eyes of his. Even seen through the sweep of eyelash and from the side, they were something. Dorian didn’t quite have a name for that something, striking was close but too impersonal as were the half dozen other words that came to mind as he waited for the Inquisitor to say what ever it was he’d stopped him for.

“It’s Cey,” he stated finally, and when that earned him a look of confusion he continued, “my name, it’s Cey. Everyone here calls me something different. Herald, Inquisitor, Boss… your worship is probably the most unsettling… but no one uses my name. I’m beginning to wonder if anyone even knows it.”

Dorian looked down at this man who some would consider blessed, Maker sent, more legend than flesh and saw what no one else was allowed to, uncertainty... raw vulnerability naked in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what had convinced Cey that he was the person to confide in. Honestly wasn’t sure what to even say to that, intimacy that didn’t involve a lot more skin wasn’t really his area of expertise.  
“Doesn’t Varric call you Scarecrow?”

A laugh then, soft but needed as Cey’s hand fell away and that terrible pleading in his eyes sank back down. “Yes he does. I can’t imagine why.” No longer holding on to something living, Cey’s hand seemed lost, a flighty little bird finally settling on that red silk scarf he always wore. That at least brought a sense of calm over him. Dorian would have assumed it was a token of home if he hadn’t recognized the serpents embroidered on it to be of Tevinter make. From a lover then? Perhaps someone the Herald had lost at the Conclave? 

“Indeed, it’s such a mystery.” Dorian said it to stop the onslaught of silence and to distract himself from further speculation. 

“Thank you by the way. I’d forgotten how helpful it can be to just talk.”

“Think nothing of it. But next time let’s start earlier in the day shall we? We could do so over a game of wicked grace or something. You can get what ever you need to off your chest and I can take all your coin. Everybody wins.” 

Cey smirked at that and it was oddly devious. “Now there’s an idea.” He stood then, bowing in mock formality. “Until the next time then Lord Dorian Pavus. I bid you a good night.” 

Not to be outdone, Dorian returned the gesture with added flare just because he could. “And to you Lord Cey Lavellan,” adding a “well, how ever much of it remains,” as he straightened and headed for the stairs.


	3. Like Old Times

Noonday sunlight flitted through plumes of dust as a half dozen mages donned handkerchief face masks and brandished brooms. The tower they descended upon had been dilapidated and missing a ceiling less than a week ago. Now it was whole but filthy with the remains of the construction as sawdust and chips of stone littered the floorboards and everything else in sight. The mages were undaunted in their task. What was a bit more scrubbing if it meant having a tower to conduct their studies? Not a cage but a home, a place to feel safe. And in there midsts stood the person responsible for that sanctuary, a grey haired elf with pale tattoos who led the charge with broom at the ready.

They had decided to split into teams and to tackle the individual floors at the same time. It took hours before any true progress could be seen and even then there wasn’t much to look at.  
“It’ll look better once we put some proper bookshelves in.” An elderly man with a sun leathered face and a shock of red hair sighed, pulled the mask from his face with one crooked finger. “And maybe some really comfortable chairs. That would be nice wouldn’t it?”

“I’m more curious about what kind of alchemy equipment we can fit in here,” another retorted. A freckled youth, no more that fifteen years and just hitting that age of easy disappointment in the world. “All this sun and warm might be fine for your reading Enchanter Arin, but I’m not so sure about brewing in here. It seems a little cramped.”

“You know the Inquisition already has a fair amount of alchemy equipment set up down in the undercroft, yes?” Lavellan pointed out after tossing yet another pan-full of debris outside.

The lad’s response was pure mumble as he pushed the bristles of his broom against already swept floorboards.   
“I think what Thomas is trying to say is, while the Inquisition has been more than welcoming to we mages… there’s still a fair bit of mistrust going around. Imposing on what trust we’ve earned…”

“It’s hardly imposing, you’re all part of the Inquisition.” Lavellan let his shoulders fall slightly and shook his head. “If you’d like, I will ask Arcanist Dagna if she’d mind moving the necessary equipment out of the undercroft if that would make everyone more comfortable.”

“Wait...Dagna’s here?!?” Thomas’ face now wore a wide eyed grin. “Bout this tall, red haired and always excited?”

“...yes?”

Thomas didn’t even wait for Lavellan to finish before he was hurrying for the door. 

“Oy lad, put your broom back were it belongs before you go running off.” Enchanter Arin called after him but Thomas was already gone. Just as the door started to swing shut after him, it swung back once more to admit one tall and tanned, male human. 

“What’s the kid’s hurry?” the man asked, patting dust and dirt from a long grey coat tied at the waist with a broad red sash. 

“Off to see an old friend it would seem.” Lavellan answered, fetching Thomas’ discarded broom from the ground and setting it up along a nearby table. 

“You’ll have to forgive the boy, Kinloch hold didn’t have much in the way of friendly faces. If it is the same lady dwarf as I recall, then she would count as one of the very few bright spots to be found there.” Enchanter Arin explained as he leaned against his own broom for support. The new comer merely shrugged and closed the door behind him.

“Still leaves us short a pair of hands,” noted Lavellan, wiping grime and sweat from his forehead with a bit of his sleeve. “Unless you came to lend us one…?”

“Actually I came to speak with you,” related the man and likely mage, judging by the three headed dragon staff slung across his back. “Varric said I might find you here.”

“Ah well, what did you need then?” Lavellan set his rag and pan aside before hurriedly cleaning his hands off on his thigh and offering the non glowing one in greeting. “Also I’m terribly sorry but I haven’t had a chance to learn everyone’s name yet.”

The man accepted the handshake but looked a touch bewildered. “Did Varric not mention I was coming? I figured he’d tell you at the very least.” 

Lavellan got the distinct impression he’d forgotten something important. He gave this stranger a much more probing once over trying to figure out what he was on about. He was a few inches taller than Cey himself, with short, rough cut, black hair that spiked upward in the front and deep-set eyes. The shadow of a beard gave otherwise boyish cheeks a roguish charm and there was a thin red tattoo around his left eye and a scar running across a slightly crooked nose.

When Lavellan merely raised a brow at him he chuckled.   
“Or did the chantry really not put wanted posters all over Like Varric said they did? Either way we should probably take this conversation in private.”

Realization broke over Lavellan’s face before being chased off by a wry smile. “You’re probably right about that,” and canted his head towards the stairs behind him. “We can walk the ramparts, seeing as it’s probably not a good idea to cross the training ground right now.”

Hawke didn’t really have a response for that so settled for following the Inquisitor upwards. Once on the battlements, it was easier to find a modicum of privacy. Or at least to know they wouldn’t be overheard. 

“Sorry for not recognising you but when Varric said he was calling in a friend I wasn’t sure who to expect. He seems to know someone no matter where we are.” 

“Tell me about it.” Hawke had found himself a comfy spot on the stone walkway and eased himself down with his back against a parapet. The man looked bone weary, scrappy and every bit as good humored about it all as Varric had described in his books. It felt a little odd to be standing on the same roof. “So you’ll forgive me if I skip most of the ‘how do you do’s and ‘well met’s. I’m bout half dead and it’s a bloody long walk from… well it’s better if you don’t know.” Hawke gave a playful pat to the ground next to him. “Let’s get started then.”

To Hawke’s surprise, Lavellan actually took the offered seat.   
“Varric thought you might have some insight into our current situation.”

Hawke laughed at that, and then coughed as some grit from the journey got stuck in his throat. “From what I hear you already dropped a mountain on the bastard. Not sure anything I have to tell you would be much more helpful.”

“At this point, I’ll take any help I can get. The whole world’s a mess right now.” Lavellan let his head rest back against the shaded stone and watched the clouds as they drifted past. “Ancient evils, sky tearing itself to shreds, everybody fighting everyone else. Does it ever stop?”

Kirkwall’s champion looked thoughtful at that, following the line of distant soldiers as they patrolled. “Honestly I’m not sure. I can’t really think of a time when something wasn’t exploding or bleeding or on fire. Hell, hang around with my friends long enough and you’re likely to see all three at once.” Some distant memory brought a slight smirk to his face as he said more quietly, “but if you can’t find the time to enjoy life, then you make it for yourself. I’m not sure people like us can do much else.”

They sat in silence for a bit after that, watching and feeling weary. Until Lavellan broke it with a simple and complicated question phrased as an observation.

“I’m a little surprised you’re here alone.”

“It’s hard to explain. Honestly not sure I could if I tried.” Hawke had one arm thrown around a raised knee and the other resting in his lap yet he still managed to seem restless, like a spell held in the hand too long. “I’m never happy leaving Anders alone. Having that damned spirit inside him doesn’t exactly help either. But when Varric asked me to come I couldn’t say no. I also couldn’t just bring Anders with me… for obvious reasons.”

“Thank you, for coming I mean.”

“Not much choice there,” Hawke grumbled before exhaling some held frustration. “You’d think killing something would make it stay down but apparently darkspawn don’t play by the rules.”

“Pretty sure that’s why we keep Wardens around.”

“Yeah, provided they don’t start vanishing without a bloody trace. Hell, they were the ones that locked Corypheus away in the first place for all the good it’s done. Course him getting out is probably more my fault than theirs... still.” Hawke managed to sound both frustrated and self effacing at the same time. “ I had a contact in the Wardens checking on possible corruption you see, and then I get a letter from Varric, ‘Chuckles, Corypheus is back, could really use your help.’ And now I’m here, up a mountain and ass deep in trouble again.”

“Fun isn’t it? Being needed.”

“Ha! I can see why Varric likes you.” Hawke gave Lavellan’s shoulder a friendly slap before returning to the topic at hand. “Can’t say I’m keen on the idea that the two are connected but...”

“I hope not,” breathed Lavellan, “it’s bad enough that Corypheus has the Venatori, demons and the red templars. I’d rather not see the Wardens join the list.”

“Hey I didn’t come to deliver all bad news. That contact I mentioned? I asked him to look into this Corypheus business to see if there was any connection between him and the disappearances. Last I heard he had something for us, said to meet him in Crestwood. It’s a village in Ferelden.”

“Well that’s something at least.”

“That’s the spirit,” drawled Hawke as he stood with a stretch and then offered Lavellan a hand up. “I can meet you there or travel with you if you like.”

“I think meeting there would be best… some of my colleagues might be a bit ups…”

“Inquisitor,” from the doorway leading back to the staircase floated a thick nevarran accent followed swiftly by Cassandra’s striding step. “I wonder if I might have a w…” And that was the moment she saw them. Or more specifically, saw Hawke.

“Champion? What are you doing…” She looked like she wanted to say more but so strong was her need to frown that her lips pressed shut and cut her words short. Her breathing grew faster, her brows narrowed and her shoulders rose until they were square. Then she turned on a heel and stormed back the way she had come.

“What just happened?” Hawke had been about to introduce himself properly, it always felt a touch weird when people called him Champion. “Do I even want to know?”

“No time to explain.” Lavellan had already taken off after the seeker, near positive he knew where she was heading. “Come on, I may need an extra set of hands.”


	4. All of His Plan

“You conniving little shit.”

“You kidnapped me.You interrogated me! What did you expect?!”

It’s not so easy keeping pace with a long legged woman hell bent on wringing a roguish dwarf’s neck. By the time Hawke and the Inquisitor had caught up with Cassandra she’d already found Varric and only the dwarf’s honed reflexes and the fortunate placement of a table kept her gauntlet clad fist from connecting with his scruffy jaw.

“Hey, enough!” Lavellan jumped up and over the rail and scrambled to get between them as Varric tried to put more jaw-sparing tables between himself and Cassandra’s anger. With a new target in sight, the Seeker’s ire swerved and collided with her disbelief.

“You’re taking his side?” Spying Hawke trying to reach Varric’s position only made that disbelief ring harder. 

“I said, ENOUGH.”   
Never, had Lavellan raised his voice to Cassandra before, and the room rang with the sound.   
Her shoulders slumped instinctively, her own voice lowering even as she glowered at all of them. 

“We needed someone to lead this Inquisition.” Like a child being scolded for a fight they didn’t start, Cassandra began pacing between the strewn chairs. “First Leliana and I asked the Hero of Ferelden but she refused. ‘Too much bad blood between Orlais and Ferelden to have the queen take up under the Chantry’s Banner like that.’ “ Her gaze shifted and narrowed as it landed on Varric and a very lost looking Hawke. “Then we looked for Hawke… but he had vanished.”

“In my defense…” Hawke swallowed under the weight of the Seeker’s edged stare. Her and Aveline could have exchanged tips on making him feel like a guilty child. “I had good reason to think the Chantry wanted me for more than just my boyish good looks.”

“The Inquisition has a leader.” Varric spat back, posturing himself possessively in front of Hawke. When Cassandra took a few angry steps forward, Varric continued to stare her down. 

She tilted her head and growled between clenched teeth.   
“Hawke would have been at the conclave.” her hands clenched and unclenched rising to point at Varric from across the room. “And you kept him from us.” again her fingers balled into a fist before falling to her side. “If anyone could have saved Most Holy…”

“Varric’s not responsible for what happened at the conclave!” Hawke retorted while stepping to the dwarf’s side. “There wouldn’t even have been a need for the conclave if I had stopped Ander’s insane plan.” He placed a hand on Varric’s shoulder and the two exchanged a look. “If you’re going to punch someone, it should be me.”

“Look, no one is punching anyone.” Lavellan rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. “What’s done is done. You can’t change the past Cassandra.”

“So what… I have to accept that the Maker meant for this to happen?” She looked to Lavellan with an expression now softened with sorrow and things unsaid. “That he…That Most Holy…” But it wouldn’t last. Like a shield rising to cover what hurt most, Cassandra’s visage grew hard once more. “Varric is a liar Inquisitor. A snake. Even after the Conclave when we needed Hawke most, Varric kept him from us.”

“I was protecting my friend!” Varric shot back and suddenly Hawke’s hand on his shoulder was not merely comforting him but holding the rogue back. “You people have done enough to him.”

“Varric…” Hawke started to say but Varric cut him off with an angry shake of his head.

“No, I’m tired of this. Everyone always expects you to solve their problems. To throw your neck on the line so they don’t have to.”

“Good people DIED BECAUSE YOU KEPT HIM FROM US!”

“Stop it both of you!” There was the sharp scent of burnt ozone as Lavellan’s voice and presence crackled with energy unspent. “Fighting with each other isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He’d lowered his voice once more but the air remained just as tense.

When Cassandra finally dropped her gaze and turned away, Hawke found he could breathe again. If this was what it had been Like for Varric since the Seeker had shown up at the Amell estate then Hawke owed him more than just a few drinks. 

“Perhaps you are right,” Cassandra said quietly, her voice thin and defeated. “I cannot dwell on what might have been. We have so much at stake.” She stepped further away from them, eventually leaning on a far table with her back still turned. “Go, just go.”

No one wanted to be the first to move. Glances became looks and were exchanged until Hawke nudged Varric’s shoulder and nodded towards the stairs. With some coaxing he was able to steer his friend in that direction with one last look back at the Inquisitor to see if the elf planned to join them. Lavellan had already walked to Cassandra’s side by then, his arm up and around her shoulders as he said something Hawke couldn’t hear. He left them to it, he had his own friend to calm down and that took precedent. 

 

~~~~~~~  
It was much later when Lavellan was able to seek out Varric, finding he, Hawke and Blackwall of all people, tucked away at a corner table and deep into a bottle of whiskey. Blackwall was the first to notice his presence. 

“Inquisitor,” Blackwall called with a wave before offering Lavellan the only other chair at their table. “Hawke was just saying he might have a lead on my fellow Wardens.” 

The aforementioned mage was nursing his drink and watching Blackwall with an unreadable expression. Varric on the other hand was grimacing into his glass and only frowned harder when he saw Lavellan. 

“Yes, we should be heading out within the next day or so.” Lavellan laid a hand on the offered chair but didn’t sit. “Forgive me Warden, but I need to speak to Varric and the Champion alone for a moment.” 

Blackwall looked confused for a moment but didn’t question it, quite accustomed to following orders without knowing the motivation behind them. “Of course. I’ll be at the bar if anyone needs me.”

“Thank you.”   
When he was out of earshot, Lavellan looked to the two remaining. “Soooo… that got a bit heated didn’t it?”

“Hmph, that’s one way to put it.” Varric snorted with a bitter chuckle into another mouthful of whiskey. 

“Are you alright?” asked Lavellan, much to Hawke’s surprise. The other mage had expected and been prepared to rebuff a lecture from the Inquisition’s leader. Instead the elf looked genuinely concerned.

“That depends. How mad is Cassandra?” Varric countered though there was no anger left in him.

Lavellan sank into the chair he’d been leaning on and rested his face in his hand. “She blames herself of course. For everything no less, not just for believing you.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep secrets. I told the Inquisition everything that seemed important…” Varric took another drink and swallowed hard. “At the time…”

“I know. Even if you were keeping Hawke’s whereabouts a secret I wouldn’t blame you.” Lavellan assured though he was still rubbing at tired eyes. “No one could have known what was going to happen at the conclave. All the more reason why Cassandra shouldn’t blame you nor herself.”

“Would it help if I talked to her?” Hawke spoke up at last, still feeling slightly out of the loop. It had been too long since he and Varric had been able to grab a drink together and now they were in the midst of another mess. One he should have prevented before it even began. 

“You can try. But I wouldn’t chance it tonight. Let her gather her thoughts.” With a tired wave Lavellan got Cabot’s attention and motioned for a drink. The elf rarely drank unless he had company. Whether that was a dalish thing or just because there weren’t enough hours in the day to indulge like that wasn’t really clear. “Seeing as the cat is out of the bag, I suggest traveling with us to Crestwood.”

“Sure that’s a good idea, Scarecrow?”

“I don’t see why not. Scout Harding and her team should get there a little ahead of us provided we meet no resistance on the road and set off tomorrow.”

“Bright and early then?” Hawke asked with naked disappointment.

“Afraid so. The sooner we head out the sooner we can hopefully lay this mess to bed.” Though he was apologetic, Lavellan would not be swayed, no matter how Hawke groaned or made a show of resting his head cheek down on the table. 

“Ugh don’t talk of beds, I can’t even remember the last time I saw a proper one.” Hawke puffed his cheeks out and blew his breath out with a huff.

“Don’t tell me you and Blondie have been hiding out in caves this whole time…”

“I’m not saying one way or the other.”

“Oh Hawke, I tried to warn you…”

“About which part? The ‘Hawke how the hell did you let this happen?’ part or the ‘Well now you’ve got to fix it,’ part?”

“I never said…”

“I know Varric.” Hawke let out a long slow breath and reached without looking for his friend’s gloved hand and gave it a pat. “It’s just been a long day.” 

Lavellan took that as his cue to excuse himself.


	5. Murky Waters

Crestwood had been a damn mess. A sopping, dreary, not an ounce of cheer to be had, undead mess. In the space of a week they’d been tasked with closing a rift at the bottom of a lake, retaking an entire fort crawling with brigands just so they could get to that rift, fighting off the horde of undead trying to gnaw its way through the village and then clearing out a nest of red templars who had taken up residency in the hills. Because why not? Apparently the fishing was grand so why wouldn’t Corypheus and everyone else want a piece of it? As far as Dorian was concerned, they could have it. He was reasonably sure he’d never get the smell of damp and dog out of his clothes.

And then there had been the business with the Wardens. Or more specifically, a brush with two well meaning but badly directed lads and one dour lipped, perpetually sulking Warden who was supposedly related to Hawke. Brothers no less. Dorian wouldn’t have believed it had they and Varric both not confirmed it. Hawke was a charming roguish fellow who couldn’t go ten words without a dollop of sarcasm or wit. Watching he and Varric had been a study in fast talking with hardly a single straight word uttered. Warden Carver on the other hand… well it was probably safe to say he hadn’t been recruited for his people skills. 

So it was with a great deal of enthusiasm that he threw open the door of his room in Skyhold and tossed his pack down at the foot of the bed. It appeared as he had left it two weeks prior, single bed off to the left of the door, a woefully inadequate armoire against the same wall, a functional but ugly desk and a small wooden chair to go with it that would most certainly murder the back of any fool who tried to sit in it longer than a moment. It was only a small step up from camping in the Hinterlands but at least the mattress was comfortable and there was a fireplace so there was that.

Dorian crossed to the overstuffed armoire and pulled out a set of fresh clothes, contemplating whether he wanted something to eat or a wash first. He had just settled on a long and much needed soak when he noticed it, a packet of parchment placed on the corner of his desk. It still bore its wax seal and he recognised the Tilani insignia instantly. Mildly disappointed that there wasn’t a matching box of sweets to go with it, Dorian slipped it in the top drawer and made a mental note to read it later. 

Once more in the late afternoon sun, Dorian headed for the baths. Yes, the fortress was quite the find once one looked past the gloomy grey stone and the tendency to favor function over form. Any building that supported both a tavern and a natural hot spring within a stone’s throw of each other could be forgiven for being a touch drab. And seeing as said spring had recently been re-purposed into a fully functioning public bath... well it only seemed right to make use of it now. 

As he threw open the door to a welcomed burst of steam Dorian had to admit it was a little underwhelming. The stone under foot was rough but warm as he kicked his boots off and closed the door behind him. Someone had had the good sense to install stone benches along one wall and high windows that made the most out of the the sun’s light without letting too much of the heat out. Likely a different person entirely had placed modesty cloths on the nearest bench, which he begrudgingly took before ducking behind a wooden partition to change.

Stripping down in no time and laying his clothes where he could keep on eye on them; as a precaution against a certain blonde thief that took a great deal of pleasure in stealing his clothes and leaving them in inconvenient locations around Skyhold, Dorian tested the steaming pool with the sole of his foot before sinking into those luscious waters. They were almost too hot at first with the chill of the mountain pass still buried in his muscles. But that faded in moments along with the aches and saddlesore as he waded further.

It was wonderful but it was also a far cry from the bath houses of Minrathous. Marvels of architecture where the waters ran with perfume and one need only snap their fingers to be  
waited on. Ah to have skilled hands running over his sore shoulders again or to sip chilled wine while debating the latest motions making their rounds on the senate floor. He couldn’t decide which he’d rather have in that moment. Of course such places ran on the backs of slaves and while Dorian was always quick to point out the injustice of southern slums it did not detract from the ugliness his homeland embraced with abandon. He let those thoughts run their usual circles in his mind while he washed the grit and sweat from his skin and hair.

It was sometime later before the solitude he’d found in both the bath and his thoughts was disrupted.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Dorian had turned the moment he’d heard the door open. Moisture and heat had made it swell and stick so you had to really throw your weight into it if you wanted it to open. The fact that it was the Herald standing there rubbing a now sore shoulder was not the worse thing. Though the opportunity for teasing would have multiplied immensely if it had been someone like Cassandra or Blackwall. Or commander Cullen… yes that would have done nicely.

But instead? A weary looking elf who was eyeing both Dorian and the pool like both were going to bite him. Which was probably not the case, at least not at the moment.  
“Ah, apologies…” From his expression it was clear Cey had no idea what to follow that up with and Dorian had no idea what he was sorry for. He also didn’t know why the man looked so damn uneasy. “I can leave.”

“And deprive me of good company? Nonsense.” Dorian’s smile was light and devoid of meaning beyond the flirtiness. “I’m just surprised you have a moment to yourself is all. Seeing as your council absconded with you the moment we were through the gates.”

That at least got a chuckle out of him. Which seemed to knock him out of what ever uncertainty had taken him when he’d first entered. It was strange, Cey had never struck him as shy or particularly self-conscious. Lavellan took one last, apprehensive look at the water lapping just over the stone lip of the pool before he started undoing the buttons on his coat. Dreadful thing really, floor length leather and dyed a deep blackish blue, Dorian mused it would look better in a bin than on the stone bench it was now draped across. It was followed by a more tasteful black vest, loose linen shirt and equally loose trousers in short order. It did not escape Dorian’s notice that Cey’s hands hesitated at the scarf tied at his neck. Nor did the care with which he folded it as he placed it among the rest of his belongings.

“Better?” Dorian said after Cey had finally joined him. More a tease than a question if Cey’s closed eyes and groan of satisfaction was anything to go off of.

“Much,” it was almost a purr, like some fat cat lying in the sun and getting its ear scratched all at the same time. “And I didn’t escape technically. Josephine threatened to toss me in here herself. Apparently, blood and dust are anathema to the Maker, Andraste and overpaid dance instructors brought all the way in from Lydes.”

“Planning to ask Corypheus to waltz with you the next time he comes to separate your head from your shoulders?” 

“Depends on how nicely he’s dressed. Good fashion is a formidable weapon as Madame Vivienne keeps telling me and I’m inclined to agree with her.” Of course Cey’s voice was the epitome of seriousness, which made his grin all the more eye rolling when he followed it with, “that is, if your wardrobe is anything to go off of.”

Dorian flicked water at him from afar and tried not to return the smile. “No one could pull off my sense of style, I don’t care how long they’ve been around for.”

“Now that I believe. And watch it with the water. The last person who did that still has scars from the incident.” 

“Truly I am terrified,” Dorian even gave a mock gasp to sell it. “So if not for our blighted friend and his archdemon pet then who?” 

“The empress of course. Apparently attending a masquerade ball requires knowing all the latest dance crazes.” Cey set about scrubbing the travel dirt from himself even as he shook his head at his own sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus while looking for an assassin, think of the scandal.”

“I’ve always wondered why they call them masquerades in Orlais. Surely if you’re always masked then there’s nothing particularly special about a ball where masks are a requirement,” admitted Dorian as he leaned against the side, his elbows on the stone and his fingertips trailing over the water’s surface. The heat was getting to him, making him drowsy and letting his mind wander. At the moment it was keeping a discreet eye on the Herald and the water running down his exposed chest. The elf wasn’t really his type but he could appreciate how the steam rising between them played nicely against the sheen of his skin or how enticing it was to watch all that lean muscle move when he bent or twisted.

“If Josephine’s recent dinner guests are any indication it will be just another evening for most. Well minus the assassination we’re meant to stop.” He was very flippant for someone trying to piece the world back together. Dorian couldn’t decide if he needed to be more serious or if the rest of the world needed to lighten up a bit. It was probably both.

“See that’s what truly makes it a party. It’s just not an evening out until the corpses start piling up.” Dorian was only half joking. In Tevinter they were normally the bodies of slaves littering the back rooms and private parlors. But the more prestigious the party the more likely to find magister blood seeping into fine Antivan carpets or tucked behind silk drapes. That is, if the body was found at all.

“You are a grim young man, Dorian.” Not the first time Dorian had heard those words but the first someone had been laughing when they said it. Not that he minded, it was true and at least the Herald had a decent laugh to go with it. A rich and infectious sound, content to be joyful and not much else. 

“What can I say? It’s part of my…”

“Charm,” Cey finished for him with another grin, one that slipped into a mischievous little smirk as he waded closer to where Dorian leaned. “I’ve noticed. In fact you seem to have a lot of them.”

Dorian stood his ground, considering many different things as he watched Cey’s approach with a raised brow. “Well that only takes eyes.”

“Which I have.”

“Yes you do, a rather fetching pair.” Dorian would give the man that much. Thin, fair faced, elven mages might not be Dorian’s flavor of the week, but Cey’s eyes could stop most people in their tracks. It had been unsettling at first, but at some point in the last month or so those feelings had turned to fascination. The elf was a curiosity, what could he say? Insatiable curiosity was something of Dorian’s own personal curse. He supposed that was also part of his charm.

In the time it had taken him to think about when exactly that change had occurred, Cey had closed the distance between them. Not too close, the man wasn’t invading his personal space, but close enough that a slight shift in Cey’s posture sent water lapping across Dorian’s hips and waist. He might not be the most traditionally handsome man Dorian had ever seen but he certainly moved like one. No energy wasted and yet every step or gesture was fluid and looked effortless. One of these days Dorian was going to ask him why that was, why he moved like an acrobat or a dancer and like no mage Dorian had ever known. 

“Mmm so I’ve been told. Completely unrelated, I had a question I wanted to ask you.” His voice wasn’t bad either, especially when it hung heavy with invitation and coyness all at once. 

“I am as you say down south ‘all ears’.” 

“There’s this problem you see, very complicated, couldn’t possibly explain it all here, but I was hoping you might be able to lend me a hand sorting it out.” Cey’s expression hadn’t changed and neither had his posture, but he was being a great deal more vague than usual. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can.”

Dorian wasn’t sure if he was being propositioned or not. Mostly because that was a terrible pickup line if he was. He hmmed for a bit before making a show of rolling his shoulders. “Tad vague but I might be able to find the time. We could discuss it over dinner if you’d like.” If that was the Inquisitor’s aim then he was going to have to try a lot harder than that.

“Sounds perfect.” He looked like he was going to elaborate for a moment, but shook his wet mane and just smirked. “I should probably get back before Josephine rallies a search party for me. I will see you tonight Dorian.” 

“I look forward to it Lord Cey.” Though he gave a mock bow and added the faux title, Dorian mostly just liked seeing the reaction using the Herald’s name got him. Who knew such a small thing could apparently mean so much?  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Lazy shadows lengthened across the garden grounds as Cey strolled along the walkway above. The evening’s outstretched fingers were longer than he would have liked all things considered, turning brilliant blooms into pastel suggestions of flowers in the settling dusk. But excusing himself from the dozen and one things Josephine had crammed into his schedule had been its own form of dance. One in which she always had the upper hand, cutting each of his excuses into ribbons just as they left his mouth. Perhaps duel was the better analogy. 

But he was here finally, standing outside Dorian’s room with a stack of books balanced against his chest and a slight skip to his pulse. There was no hesitation in his knock, a crisp rap upon the wood that would have echoed off the walls within. He contemplated saying something suggestive but technically harmless while he waited for that door to open, fully aware of how his earlier proposal had sounded. That was the fun wasn’t it? No one else in Skyhold flirted quite like Dorian did, quick with a quip or to turn the tables. Not that Cey spent much time trying to flirt with anyone else. Why should he bother when he already had such a perfect verbal sparring partner?

The door swung inwards and Cey’s senses were delightfully assaulted. Where to even start? Firelight at Dorian’s back like some halo of temptation. It framed him in the doorway and flowed down white satin robes that bloomed into red velvet wherever it revealed sections of Dorian’s tan skin. The immediate scent of cinnamon, sandalwood and black lotus mixing with the late autumn rose rising from the garden below was heady in Cey’s lungs. but nothing could compare with the lilt of Dorian’s voice as he invited Cey in, like liquid silk and he wasn’t even trying.

“I see you come bearing gifts. And here I didn’t get you anything.” Dorian shut the door behind them and motioned towards the desk without being asked. 

It took Cey a moment longer than he’d like to admit to recover but he managed eventually. “Why not a fruit basket? I hear they’re in style.” It was a touch easier to breathe when he wasn’t looking directly at the man. With any luck, he’d soon figure out why that was. “Hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of having food sent up from the kitchens, it should be here shortly.”

“Not at all, so what arcane mystery are we attempting to unravel tonight hm?” Dorian offered a knowing little smirk when Cey shot him a surprised look over his shoulder. The latter had been flipping through the top tome looking for a specific page and the former had taken one look at the numbers and runes within those pages before realizing his assumptions in the baths had been a tad off. Then, as a completely different thought slipped into his mind he continued with, “ah I meant to ask earlier, any news on your clan?”

Resuming his search for the appropriate page, Cey gave a half conscious nod. “Leliana’s agents were able to send the so called bandits off and we’ve some leads on who hired them.” 

“So your suspicions were right.” Dorian had taken a seat on the edge of his bed and had that familiar contemplative look he so often wore, tapping a little rhythm out along his jawline. He could see the line of Lavellan’s spine stiffen and actually hear the breath he sucked in. 

“So it would seem.” 

The once pleasant warmth of the room grew steadily hotter as the silence crept along the floor and up the walls. Fortunately, breaking terrible silences was something Dorian had a lot of practice in. He stood in a wonderfully fluid motion and wandered over to the desk. He plucked the tome from Cey’s hands before the elf could protest and glanced over it as he settled against the wall with a lazily lean.

“Now where did you find this beauty?” It had the heft of a good story and the dust of countless years pressed between the covers. With the utmost tenderness Dorian ran a finger over the place were the title should be, worn down to nothing more than an impression in the leather the book was bound in. 

“Private collection,” Cey said with a note of mild indignation, “and my aren’t you grabby tonight?”

“My dear Inquisitor, you keep holding out sure rare treasures on me and I’ll show you how ‘grabby’ I can be.” They were close enough that Dorian need only lean forward to give his words that touch of seduction that was sure to fluster. So amused by the mere anticipation of the Herald’s fair complexion coloring crimson. He should have known better.

“Mmm, is that so?” If Dorian had expected Cey to move back or look away then he was sorely mistaken. It didn’t take much till those six or so inches between them shortened to three and then became scarcely a hair's breadth. It was as open a challenge as it was an invitation. ‘Don’t make promises you don’t intend to make good on.’ Cey might as well have said it for all that his eyes gleamed, locking onto Dorian’s own and daring the other male to break contact first. 

Surprise was not the exact emotion running just behind Dorian’s eyes, but it was close. Why was he just now noticing how small his room had become? Or was that merely because he’d unwittingly trapped himself between the very solid wall behind him and the bold but not forceful elf in front of him? What was Lavellan even playing at anyway? More teasing? Had Dorian’s earlier assumptions been correct after all? Why did he find himself half hoping they were? What would he win if he called the elf’s bluff? What would he lose? 

This hadn’t been Cey’s intent when coming here. There were questions he needed answers to, and with Dalish magic being more practical than theoretical, Dorian was his best chance. He wanted the man’s opinion and help so that he might recover the memories he’d lost or explain the odd visions that sometimes overtook him. Yet as he stood there, one hand flat on the desk, the other itching to trail over Dorian’s exposed shoulder, the only thing he wanted was to close that distance and let the rest of it fall as it may.

the moments stretched by as neither wanted to give ground, the tension like a held breath waiting for the exhale. But what had begun as a bit of cheek slowly devolved into the ridiculous. Would they spend the whole night just staring at each other? Both too stubborn to give but too unsure to give in and cross that line? Just when Dorian was sure Lavellan would cave and give him the victory the creep of a laugh betrayed him. He covered it well enough with an awkward cough hidden behind a hand and Cey masked his reflexive grin by taking back the book Dorian had confiscated.

“You’ve made me lose my place.” It was more statement than accusation, “what am I going to do with you?”

“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Seeing as Cey had walked away from him and taken to perching on the edge of his bed, Dorian considered himself the victor by default. “And you still haven’t answered my earlier question.”

Before Cey could answer that, a knock at the door interrupted as surely as a hammer through a window. It was one of the kitchen girls of course, hands laden with cloth covered trays. Trays Dorian was quick to relieve her of along with the bottle of Rowan’s Rose that had been nestled among them. But though he was equally quick to shoo her back to her duties, neither he nor Cey missed the curious look that had sprang upon her features. By morning news would spread, the fact that the news wasn’t really news at all and barely qualified as idle gossip wouldn’t amount to much Dorian suspected. He shut the door once she’d scampered off and rounded on Cey like a tutor spoiling for a lecture. 

Cey cut him off with surprising ease. “Next time I say we do this in my rooms,” he said with a sigh and not a drop of concern. “Either that or you could put in a requisition for a proper table and chairs.”

Dorian cleared a spot on his desk big enough to set the trays down and kept his lecture to himself. He should have expected this, were there not already a half dozen rumors with himself at the center? He wondered if the Herald knew even a third of what was said about the members of his inner circle or hell, a fifth of what they said about him. Probably not, otherwise he’d steer clear of Dorian and judging by the man’s flippant tone and casual air, he had no intention of doing so. Probably not the wisest choice.

Beneath their linen coverings the platters offered quite the savory spread. Thick slices of brown bread spread with fresh butter, a plate piled high with choice cuts of roasted goose, some type of mash that was likely potatoes and a bowl of brown gravy. And that was just the first one. The second seemed to serve as the dessert tray as someone had tucked a half dozen fruit pastries amid the dishes and silverware. How the girl had managed to carry both of these all the way to his room without spilling a drop or upsetting any of it was its own little mystery. 

“If I had to guess, I’d say they were trying to fatten you up,” Dorian drawled. Not that he was complaining, if supping with the Herald meant being fed this well he might have to do it more often.

“And I wish them luck on that. Maherrin’s been trying that for years.” Cey elaborated after a moment, “eldest sister. She’s an excellent cook and all but you can see how well it worked.” He waved a hand at his rail thin frame and shrugged. Truly a mystery Dorian agreed, seeing as the elf could put food away like he was eating for two and not gain an ounce of weight. 

They ate amid comfortable albeit, casual conversation in which Cey explained the holes of his memory and the out of context impressions that sometimes overtook him. Some of it was already known to Dorian, thanks in part to a fair few nights drinking with Sera at ‘The Herald’s Rest’. The rest was curious but Dorian wasn’t sure why he was being asked and not Solas, who admittedly had knowledge of the fade few, if any could match. But he kept that question to himself. 

By the time Cey had finished his explanation and was halfway through a raspberry and cream tart both of them were reclining on the side of Dorian’s bed. The lack of proper seating did not escape him as he dusted pastry crumbs from the bedspread.

“So these impressions as you call them,” began Dorian once he’d finished chewing. “Are they always related to people you know or situations as you experience them?”

“No. That’s what’s so unsettling.” Cey was hunched forward, elbows on knees and gaze off in the middle distance with thought. “Each person feels as if I should know them, names and faces but I can’t place where I’ve met them or when. Same with situations. Like Redcliffe for instance. When you sent us that note both Cassandra and Bull were certain it was a trap. To be honest we all were, but rather than paranoia or apprehension like you’d expect do you know what feeling was at the forefront of my mind?”

The question was clearly rhetorical so Dorian simply waited for Cey to continue. 

“Elation. How mad is that? I was practically sprinting to get to the Chantry.” Cey was shaking his head, dessert forgotten in his hand.

Dorian cracked a smile and took the low hanging fruit. “Perhaps you sensed the presence of a certain handsome mage nearby.” On a more serious note he added, “or, and this is more likely, the anchor was reacting to the nearby rift.”

Cey let his head roll back with a soft groan. “That crossed my mind as well. Alexius playing with time there certainly did something to the rifts but none of them affected me emotionally. Just physically.”

“How so?” 

“Strangely of course. Beyond having the lovely effect of making me feel seasick, it felt a little bit like being pulled and pushed at the same time. Such a pleasant affair, no?” There was something about his free-marcher’s accent that made the sarcasm almost tangible.

“Indeed.” Dorian shuddered. He did not want to revisit those memories, he hadn’t even spoken to Felix about them yet, despite his friend asking in every letter they exchanged. For all that they had accomplished and learned there, it was still something Dorian wished to put behind him and leave there. “So you think it’s connected to your time in the fade?”

He’d been paging through the tomes Cey had brought with him while he’d been listening. They were all written on the same subject, the nature of the fade and the various dealings mages had had with it over the years from the spirits encountered to the best way to deal with abominations. Some of it was utter bunk, but a few seemed to offer insight Dorian had yet to see.

“It’s a guess at best, but as good a place to start as any. I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t have this prior to the Conclave. Our Keeper would have never named me First if I had… well provided she knew about it anyway.” Cey finished his tart and stood, tidying the dishes into a pile like he needed something for his hands to do. “Also, the equation I mentioned earlier; the one with the missing values, I keep seeing it in the fade when I sleep. Commonplace for a mage raised by a circle I would guess but not so much among the dalish. Thus my assumption that it’s related.”

“Well,” Dorian began after a bit of thought. “We do bind spirits as servants in Tevinter but I’ve never heard of one doing anything or saying anything related to memories or equations in such a manner. Have you asked Cole what he makes of it?”

“Once, his answer was cryptic as you can imagine.”

Dorian merely nodded at that, perfectly aware of how confusing and yet fascinating speaking with their resident spirit could be. And also painful depending on what the subject of the discussion was. “Well I don’t think we’re going to arrive at an answer tonight, but if it pleases you I can have a poke about the library and see what turns up.” As an afterthought he added, “I can also write to Felix on the subject. I won’t give him every detail of course, but he’s always been a master when it comes to numbers.”

“I would appreciate it immensely. I’ve been getting nowhere on my own as you can imagine.” 

So Dorian was correct in assuming Cey hadn’t spoken to anyone else besides him and Cole on the subject. That just brought a whole other set of questions roaring to the forefront. One of which slipped out before he could stop himself.  
“Why come to me with this?” When Cey gave him a startled look of confusion at the outburst, Dorian softened the tone and expounded on it. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that you recognise my talents as a scholar. But do you really want the ‘evil magister’ knowing all your secrets?”

“I thought you were an Altus?” 

Dorian pursed his lips. “ You know what I mean.”

“I trust you with my life, Dorian.” Cey stated it so bluntly that Dorian was sure he was being sarcastic. But then he continued, “So what good would keeping you in the dark serve?”

‘The good of self preservation? It’s daft to be so open with someone you barely know.’ Dorian didn’t say his follow up thought either, ‘please let him not be this politically inept. They’ll devour him whole in Halamshiral.’ 

“You seem surprised.” Cey had his arms crossed now and a hip leaned against the left bottom bed post. 

“Pleasantly so,” Dorian answered, allowing curiosity to mask the concern he felt. “Any particular reason you reached such a conclusion?” 

“Several, but why the sudden interrogation?” He inclined his head, narrowing his already hooded eyes. “Do you think it’s a ruse? Showing you an illusionary weakness to tempt you into trying to exploit it? Theirin proving you to be some type of Venatori spy to be dealt with accordingly?” There was a sharpness to the smirk he wore, more teeth than humor. “That would be too simple a ploy for someone as quick as you. And besides, were you Venatori then Redcliffe would have been a choice opportunity to end me. You might still have had an Inquisition to deal with but nothing quells an army faster than removal of its holy symbol. History’s proven that already I would say.”

“No, I think better of you than that,” surprised by the honesty of that sentiment Dorian shook his head as much at himself as in answer to Cey’s questions. “Underhanded doesn’t strike me as your style.” 

Cey deflected with a shrug of his hands.  
“If it is what the situation calls for then I can make no promises. But, thank you.” He hid a yawn with the back of his hand and stretched with a wince. “Shall we pick this up at a later date?”

“Certainly, how does tomorrow sound?”

“Doable if it’s before supper.” A grimace then as he went on to explain. “Lady Montilyet has me dining with Lord Benoit Gelinaux tomorrow. Were he will no doubt spin a very convincing tale about his unending faith in the Maker and make thinly veiled accusations about the Inquisition’s dealings with chantry clerics. Afterwards I will invite him to walk the gardens and oh so subtly remark on the sacrifice of chancellor Roderick and how he was a man of action as well as words. Which if all goes smoothly should last just long enough for us to reach the plaque we installed with the names of those who died in Haven. I’m hoping it will dissuade him from continuing his little uprising among the orlesian nobles.” He moved to collect the neatly stacked dishes he’d tidied earlier.

Dorian couldn’t help but to chuckle. “I’ll keep an eye out then shall I? For when Lord Gelinaux realizes you’re more than just a pretty face of course.” He stood and rolled the stiffness from his back and neck before moving to get the door. 

“You wound me,” teased Cey as he stepped out into the night. “if I wanted to use charm and good looks to manipulate my opponents I’d just have them spend an afternoon with you. I’m pretty sure we could conquer Ferelden that way. But that’s for another day. Sleep well my friend.”


	6. A Toast for the Departed

“Raise you a silver.” Cey let the coin clatter onto a steadily growing pile with a flick of his thumb. ‘The Herald’s Rest’ was quite empty for a rather chilly Harvestmere afternoon. Not that you’d know it by the racket kicking up from a corner table on the first floor.

“Pffft you’re bluffing.” Sera spat around the mouth of her beer as she tossed her last coin down. Four bottles in and her words were getting fuzzy around the edges. Well, more so then usual. She was seated directly to Cey’s right, face pink with alcohol and sore losing. Further down the table was Krem who held his liquor better and his voice an octave lower as he also called the bet. At a glance it would be impossible to know they’d only just gotten back to Skyhold that morning.

“Alright Varric, you in or out?”  
The dwarf in question was scratching his chin with a forefinger and eyeing the three of them in turns. “I think I’ll fold for this round. Scarecrow over here has that grin again.”

“That’s how you know he’s bluffing! Too pleased with himself for it to be true.”  
“Or he knows you would assume that and is doing it on purpose,” Bull remarked just as Cey laid his cards down with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. Sera threw up her hands with a groan and sloshed beer down the side of her arm.

“Join us chief,” Krem raised his own bottle in good natured defeat. Not surprising, with how much the Inquisition paid the chargers he wasn’t particularly worried about the Herald taking his coin. 

“Yeah alright.” It wasn’t hard for the seven foot warrior to grab his oversized chair and drag it to their table. “Deal me in.” He’d taken the only open spot at the far end of the table and was already motioning for Cabot to sling something strong his way. “Take it mage boy didn’t feel like socializing?” 

“Hmm?” This from Cey who had been busy sliding his winnings into his pocket up to that point.

Bull inclined a horntip back and to the right but didn’t turn to look. “He’s sitting up there by himself. Seems weird.”

Varric glanced up from shuffling the deck just long enough to get a fix on who Bull was referring to.  
“I asked Sparkler if he wanted in on a hand,” Varric answered with a shrug as he turned back to the game.

Cey took his cards in hand and used them as a cover to follow where Varric had glanced. Sure enough, on the second floor was a decidedly mage-shaped shadow tucked into a corner and a bottle by himself.  
“Did he say why?”

“Not in the mood if I had to guess.” Was Varric’s response as he surveyed his hand and tossed the first copper down. “You going to go check on him Scarecrow? Looking after us troops and all that?” 

“Trying to get rid of me before I take the shirt off your back?” Cey feigned nonchalance effortlessly. If the author was going to probe him for a tell then he was going to have to be more clever in his methods. 

“Ha! If I had a royal for every time someone asked me that.” Bull had knocked back his first drink and slammed it down hard enough to leave a ring in the table. Cabot’s groan at the mistreatment of his glassware could be heard even over Maryden’s lilting harmony of ‘I am the One.’

“Chief you don’t even wear shirts.” Krem slid two of his own cards forward and rapped the table for replacements. 

“I know! It’s so flattering.” 

“Sure Tiny, what ever you say. So Buttercup, what’s it going to be?”

Sera pursed her lips and scowled in an expression vaguely reminiscent of a certain stormcloud-esque seeker. “I’ll raise you two custards and an arrow… oh also…”  
The list was ever growing and becoming increasingly more ridiculous with each additional item but Cey had stopped listening. No, his attention was were it would always be, trained on one Tevinter mage how ever discreetly. When Sera offered her left shoe to the pile he folded and passed Varric his cards before excusing himself from the game.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Bit early for brandy isn’t it?” Light of step and lighter tone, Cey’s approach etched caution into the very air. It was too quiet up here, too isolated and heavy to be careless. 

“That’s never stopped me before.” Dorian wouldn’t look at him, wasn’t looking at anything. Just staring forward with a half full glass in his hand and resting on the arm of his chair. Upon the table, the bottle that kept the glass filled and a page which gave it all purpose.

“May I join you then?” 

Dorian gestured to the adjacent seat with a tip of his drink. Still no eye contact. His lips were pulled thin and the kohl upon his bottom eyelids smudged at the corners. Cey took the offered seat and slouched down in an effort to find comfort where there was none. Silence settled like dust upon their shoulders.

Below the game of wicked grace carried on. Bull and Varric slowly trying to figure the other’s tells out while Sera cursed and Krem laughed. Another of the chargers had joined them, a brunette elf with a bare face. Maryden sang her songs and Cabot wiped dishes he’d already cleaned. It was noisy down there, bright with the light of the fireplace and warm despite the chill beyond the walls. It was as if so much more separated the floor below from the one above beyond the stairs and empty space.

“Did Varric put you up to it? No wait, I have it, it was the qunari brute, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s voice was thin and jagged at the edges, like brittle glass being swept along the floor. “Best check on the ‘vint’ mage or something to that effect?” There was a tremor to his hand as he sipped his poison of choice.

“I came to bask in your glory obviously. Forgive a man his eccentricities.” 

“You are a terrible liar.”

“So I’ve been told. What’s the letter about?”

“It’s about Felix. He went to the magisterium, stood on the senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial I’m informed. No news on the reaction but everyone back home is talking.” He swallowed hard and tried to drown the stone that now sat in his throat. “It’s no surprise of course. Felix always was a man of his word.”

Was. The entire weight of a human life placed on a single word. Past tense, no longer, a piece gone missing never to be replaced. Sure, one might learn to stop falling into the hole left behind, might reach a point where skirting it required less and less thought with each passing year. Would it matter? No, not really.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s no great shock, he’d been ill for years and thus on borrowed time anyhow.” He set his glass down just long enough to refill it.

“You can still mourn his death.”

“I know,” he murmured against the rim of his glass. He didn’t drink from it, just pressed it to his lips and stilled as if all strength had left him. 

‘Are you alright?’ It was too stupid a question to ask out loud. Cey would have reached for him, given him something physical to hold onto that was more stable than a glass of spirits but he had no way to know whether that would help or break the fragile composure Dorian had raised as a shield.

“He used to sneak me treats you know.” It began as a whisper, a little incline of Dorian’s head and a drum of his fingers across the arm of his chair. “I’d be working late in Alexius’ study, too absorbed in the research to remember to eat and there’d he be. Leaning over the desk with a smug grin on his face and some pilfered snack from the kitchens behind his back. ‘Don’t get in trouble on my behalf’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say.” He drained the glass and grimaced. “Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves.”

‘And what had it almost cost him?’ Dorian felt the tendrils of a memory creep into the liquid fog of alcohol in his mind. He tried to push it back down, to distract himself but they were vain efforts. 

“That’s Felix?!? Maker’s breath Alexius what have you done?!”  
“...I saved him.”  
Dead eyes, nothing left, a blade to end it all.

“Even in illness, Felix was the best of us.” Dorian shook his head and reached once more for the bottle. “With him around you knew things could be better.”

With a hand placed atop Dorian’s outstretched one, Cey drew Dorian’s bloodshot gaze upwards and held it. “And they still can be, if others follow his example.”

“Comforting people isn’t your strong suit is it?” Dorian shook off Cey’s hand and pulled the bottle closer to him incase the Herald got the urge to try that again. 

“Do you want to be comforted? Or do you want to curse the world and everyone in it for failing a good man? Specifically yourself for not having done better?”

“What a mad thing to say. I and Alexius did everything we could to prolong Felix’s life, to find some cure. We came closer than anyone else, adding years when he would have only had months before. It drove Alexius mad did it not? He was willing to give the world to Corypheus just for the illusion of Felix’s life. But you saw what I saw. That wasn’t living...” He was struggling to control the volume of his anger, shaking with it as his jaw clenched shut. “What more could I have done?”

“Nothing. That’s why it hurts the way it does.” 

“Going to tell me how I feel are you? Be my guest oh Herald, dazzle me with your insight.” 

Cey stood, walked around until he was square in front of Dorian and folded his arms.  
“There isn’t any, Dorian. There is no comparison, no metaphor, no grand revelation. Death is only ever death... and pretending I have some magical words to make it ache less would do nothing but anger you further.” It was blunt but it was the truth. Cey could feel empathy for Dorian’s pain but trying to comfort him by implying he knew what it was like? Telling him it would get better? That everything would be alright and that Felix was in a better place now or watching over him? No, those were things one said to make themselves feel better about being unable to understand the pain of their grieving friend. “But, I will tell you this. Felix knew that there were worse things than dying. And you and I both saw that future with our own eyes.”

Dorian was slumped all the way down in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his unoccupied hand. “Yes. At least this way he died on his own terms. Doing good in the world till his final breath.”

“So we toast his life.” Quicker than an arrow, Cey relieved Dorian of his glass, refilled it, and then offered the rest of the bottle back to the stunned mage. “To Felix.” He raised the glass he’d just confiscated and waited.

“You do realize my mouth was on that, yes?” 

“So?” Cey had the gall to shrug. “Unless you’d rather I take the bottle instead?”

“You’d have to pry it away from my corpse first.”

“Then it’s settled.” Again he lifted the glass high. “To Felix, the best of the Imperium, Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

“To a good man gone too soon.” Dorian conceded and knocked the bottle back. “A better person than I clearly, but not nearly as handsome.” Another memory, a better one... of late night tavern dancing and goading Felix into saying something silly to the serving girl. It hurt to think about, it probably always would.

“Well, we can’t all be perfect.” 

“No, but thankfully Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.”

 

They talked for hours as people came, drank and left far below. Or rather, Dorian did, recounting story after story of his and Felix’s escapades in Minrathous. When Dorian’s voice would crack and his eyes moisten, the elf would say something ridiculous to pull him back to the here and the now. When Dorian regained his composure they’d do it all over again, only stopping when Cey insisted he drink some water or put something starchy on his stomach. Dorian would tease, call him mother hen but he did as he was asked. 

Cole joined them eventually. Or perhaps he’d been there the whole time, lurking beneath the sweep of his hat. He took Cey’s vacated seat since the elf had taken to sitting on the railing, and soon it was the spirit who was doing most of the talking. Soothing words that made far more sense now that Dorian’s mind was slick with liquor. Memories he’d mostly forgotten were unburied and untangled until he was smiling despite the ache. He’d have to remember to thank the spirit tomorrow.

When the night lengthened and Dorian could stomach no more alcohol nor sorrow, Cey insisted they walk back together. Not a terrible idea, his voice might still be steady but Skyhold was a fortress of stairs. How embarrassing would it be to be the one fool who died tumbling down steps in the middle of a war with an ancient darkspawn? The Pavus name would never recover. 

So when that first faltering step had him reaching for the rail, Dorian was thankful for the slender arm that shot around his waist.  
“Not a word of this tomorrow,” he murmured beneath breath that was more brandy than air. “I’ve a reputation to uphold.”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied the solid and warm anchor Dorian now threw his arm over. “Besides, pretty sure even Bull would be impressed with how much you put away tonight.”

Dorian bid Cole goodnight and even waved to Cabot who was sweeping a couple more drunks out the door. When they’d left the tavern, Dorian’s left arm was thrown over Cey’s shoulders and the elf’s right arm still loose around Dorian’s hips. There but impersonal, to steady and nothing more. 

The moon was high but the air was the sort of freezing that one normally found right before dawn and no amount of alcohol could keep Dorian from shivering. 

“Andraste’s blessed knickers why is it always so cold?” Dorian hissed as they crossed the courtyard. But his complaining fell short when Cey’s arm around him tightened, pulling him flush against the elf’s side. Why would he complain? It was a warm place to be, oddly comfortable and smelling faintly of oncoming rain. But it also made him acutely aware of things he’d been ignoring when sober. Tempting, possibly dangerous things.

They passed through the gardens and finally made it to Dorian’s room. He was well beyond gone by the time he fell into bed and kicked his boots off. The moment his head hit the pillow in fact, leaving Cey to throw the covers over him while the altus snuggled into said pillow. For the best perhaps as Cey could not keep the pain off his face. 

It was too familiar. He’d seen it before. He couldn’t have, his memory tied itself in knots trying to make sense of the conflicting accounts. He knew it was just more of those out of context emotions washing over him and mingling with a budding affection he could not deny. He hated it, how could he trust a single thought? What was his and what wasn’t? And who was it that wanted nothing more than to lay down next to the man now blissfully sleeping? To rub his back and hold him when the nightmares sank their teeth in deep? 

How did he even know Dorian would have nightmares? That they would be of a Redcliffe that would never come to be and of Felix’s face there? That horrid, heartbreaking face so contorted by Alexius’ experiments that Dorian had not even recognized him at first. Of Leliana's blade spilling blighted blood that sputtered with Felix’s last breath. Was it Cey who wished for nothing more than to pull Dorian’s head to his chest and promise that it was a horror that would never be made real? Or was it what ever had stolen the elf’s memory and made him distrust his own feelings?

Cey collected each question and folded it back into the subconscious place where they normally lingered. Physically he ensured the blankets were tucked in around the object of his confusion and shook the hair from his eyes. ‘Mother hen indeed,’ he chided himself as he placed a glass of water on the bedside table and a bucket just in case. He’d have to stop by tomorrow with halani bark or something, the man’s hangover headache was going to be monstrous of that there was no doubt.


	7. Birds of a Feather

Swift wind howling wicked cold between perverted verse and still night air. And how the fire and moonlight did dance across blood slicked grass blades and glassy eyes.  What was a little sacrifice in the face of a god’s chosen? What was the worth of a life when compared to the price of paradise? These three figures, their tomes and their words arranged amid painted sigils of latent power, held their hands aloft and their voices in fevered concentration. 

Secreted away in darkened grove where the air shimmered with frailty and the fade permated each inhale, their rite was almost complete. Within their circle the fabric of the veil strained beneath the weight of their wills unraveling by the second until all at once it tore asunder.

At the head of it all a hooded mage, Venatori to their core, had but a moment to congratulate themselves and stare in smug satisfaction before a dagger slit their throat. Twas but a moment before the once hushed night erupted into so much discord.

* * *

 

 

Cole flicked droplets of crimson from whirling dagger tips before the shadows swallowed his wraith like form once more. Slipping beneath the swing of cruel hand as ice encased the place where his head had been, his blade disappeared into the belly of the second mage, slicing upwards and out. Ahead of him, the third writhed in flames and electric shock as Dorian and Lavellan threw spells in perfect tandem. What guards there had been at the campsite a few meters away came running only to be met by Bull’s axe and Blackwall’s sword. 

To their credit they were no raw recruits, the first  parrying Blackwall’s upwards swing with a small buckler before thrusting at his left side. The sound of metal thunking into wood and canvas as shields and blades clashed mingled with grunts and cries when edges and tips found their marks. Bull had only marginally less trouble as his size was compensated by his opponent’s speed. It was only when he managed to catch the man’s knee cap with a devastating kick that the qunari was able to deliver a fatal blow across the man’s chest.

Seeing Blackwall take a blow across his right thigh and already bleeding from his shield arm, Bull waded in with a swing aiming for the last guard’s unarmoured hip. Between the two of them it was quick work, just as the wisps that had poured from the rift were swift work of the mages and Cole. 

It was over in minutes as most skirmishes are and Lavellan wasted no time in sewing the night sky closed once more before turning to see how the others had faired. 

Blackwall spat a curse or two and hobbled closer to the nearby campfire with one arm slung over Cole’s shoulders. 

“How bad is it?” A question that held more concern than just the words it contained. Lavellan was already pulling vials from the belt strung across his hips. 

“Stings like a bastard.” Through gritted teeth, the Warden managed to sound more annoyed than pained. “Doesn’t feel deep though.” 

Now knelt at his side, Lavellan was eying the wound with furrowed brows. 

“Hope you’ve got something more than healing potions on you, boss.” Bull’s grim growl issued across the grove to them. He was knelt near the bodies of the two guards with one of their blades held beneath his nose. As he tossed it down in disgust he affirmed what Lavellan had suspected. “There’s poison all over these blades.”

A second vial found its way to Lavellan’s hand even as his eyes took on an apologetic look. “This is going to smoke and burn like a pyre.” He broke the wax seal at the top and let the foul smelling liquid within breathe for a moment as he continued. “Do you want to be laying down or sitting?”

With sweat now peppering his brow, Blackwall held the elf’s gaze. “Here’s fine, just give me something to bite down on.” There was no need to question what the liquid was or if there was something else less painful he could be given. He knew beyond doubt he was in careful hands.

Without a word Cole handed Blackwall a thick strap of leather. It tasted of neatsfoot oil and road dust as he clenched it between his teeth and steeled himself for what was to come. Lavellan hadn’t lied, the smell of acrid burning caught in the back of the throat and it felt as though a white hot poker had been laid against the open wound from the second the liquid touched flesh. Three minutes passed before the wound could be cleaned and bound, ten minutes before the process had to be repeated for the gash on his arm.

When all was said and done Blackwall found he could stand and even walk, but had no desire to do either of those two things. 

“Any chance we can camp here for the night?” His voice was shaky, the chuckle he attempted little more than a strained scrape of breath.

“Might as well, seeing as they were kind enough to leave us all their supplies,” nodded Lavellan as he watched Bull and Dorian take care of the corpses. Though it unsettled most of their companions, Dorian’s ability to make the dead walk did have its perks. Namely making them dig their own graves. Normally he wouldn’t have deprived the scavengers of a meal but having fresh bodies only a few dozen feet from where he’d be sleeping just wasn’t appealing. 

When they had finished there wasn’t much to do besides rest through what little night was left to them. 

* * *

 

Dawn broke behind a curtain of thick, lazy clouds and to the tune of fat raindrops on wax treated canvas. Quietly Lavellan sat up and rubbed life back into his still tired face. Beside him on a separate bedroll, Dorian still slept. Lavellan left him to it, seeing no reason to wake him until they were ready to break camp. In part because the man was near impossible to rouse before mid morning and also because Lavellan couldn’t bring himself to interrupt such peaceful seeming slumber. Dressing just as silently as he did most things, it wasn’t long before the elf was back outside and spoiling for something to put on his growling stomach. 

Cole was the first to greet him, seated by the fire’s side with a large raven perched on his shoulder.

“New friend of yours?” It wasn’t hard to guess why the raven was there, Lavellan pegging it for the messenger bird it clearly was. 

Cole gave the avian a scratch and smiled. “He wishes we had left the bodies out, but doesn’t mind if it’s dried.” He held out another bit of meat which the raven pecked at greedily. 

“Well tell him sorry for me. Maybe next time.” Fetching rations of hardtack from his own rucksack, Lavellan grabbed a seat across from the pair of spirit and bird. “Don’t suppose there was a letter attached to our friend there?”

“Yes,” Cole produced the thin slip of paper from one of his many pockets and held it out for Cey to take. “The grey woman wants you to go to Kinloch hold, she said Denerim, but that’s not where he’s at.”

“Of course.” Lavellan unfolded the letter with one hand, his breakfast clutched in the other. 

 

_ ‘Dear Herald, _

 

_ King Alistair has requested you journey to Denerim to discuss some recent developments concerning the rifts in Ferelden. Queen Eleanor has sent an escort to meet you, they will be waiting in Redcliffe village for your arrival. _

 

_ Stay safe, _

_ Sister Leliana.’ _   
  


Lavellan read it, folded it, sighed at it and then placed it in his coat. “Lovely, and here I was thinking things could go as planned for once. So much for a quick trip.” He’d only dragged them out here in order to track down the Venatori agents Dorian had given them information on. Partly because he was hoping to find some clue as to Corypheus’ whereabouts and admittedly, partly because it pleased Dorian. Not that he was willing to say that last bit out loud.

“It makes him sad, like seeing a flower wither,” Cole whispered still lavishing the raven with affection and treats. “But also happy, not as happy as the smell of parchment and leather, it’s sadder than that, tangled in the threads.”

Lavellan blinked for a moment, thought about what he’d just heard, realized he wasn’t quite sure what Cole was talking about and then resigned himself to just not worrying about it. There were after all, other things to concern himself with. A list of things longer than he cared to think about. 

Still it wasn’t as if he could refuse a summons from the sitting king of Ferelden, Josephine would kill him herself if he even tried. 

“Cole, make sure our little bird friend sticks around for a moment, I need to write a return message.”

* * *

 

Redcliffe village seemed almost empty now that it wasn’t harboring an army of scared rebel mages among its wooden huts and rain soaked cobblestone streets. Not that Lavellan minded that, it made finding the guardsmen sent to escort them to Denerim that much simpler. Pity nothing could ever stay that way.

“Greetings your worship!” from beneath the awning of a small shop waved a figure garbed in well kempt splitmail with the king’s standard painted across his unblemished tabard. The rosy cheeked face of a young man greeted them as they made their way over. “Tis an honor to meet you ser!” he said quieter this time yet with just as much enthusiasm. “I am Ser Seral of the king’s guard here as escort to you and yours but first I must ask that you join me and my brothers in the tavern. It is of the utmost importance.”

“I could really go for a drink right about now boss.” Bull chimed in with a nudge to Lavellan shoulder. A sentiment quickly seconded by both Dorian and Blackwall, a desire for alcohol being one of the few subject matters the two didn’t disagree on. Cole on the other hand was hovering to Lavellan’s left, far closer than normal. 

“They’re waiting for us.” he whispered from just over the Inquisitor’s shoulder.

“Why yes, we’ve been waiting a day or two now. I was told to bring you to the tavern the moment you arrived in the village. King Alistair said it was very important that he meet with you about the mission.” 

“Is King Alistair here as well then?” Blackwall asked a touch apprehensively.

Ser Seral was quick to backtrack. “No no of course not. His majesty awaits you in Denerim as the letter mentioned. I merely meant that we should hurry. Time is of the essence.”

“Very well, lead on then.” Inclined Lavellan, and then he gestured for Ser Seral to walk in front of them. When the guardsman had turned around, Lavellan shot Bull a very brief yet pointed look. Bull nodded in turn. Lavellan sighed and turned forward once more. Nothing could ever be simple.

The Gull and Lantern tavern always seemed to be at the center of everything happening in the Hinterlands. With the steady downpour outside, many of Redcliffe’s residents had crammed their way inside the cozy building with its low slung ceiling and lengthy wrap-around bar. Most had their heads deep within their tankards with only a couple of faces glancing over to them as they entered. 

“The rest of my brothers are upstairs. We didn’t know when exactly you’d arrive so rooms were acquired. It’s right this way.” Ser Seral held his hand out before him motioning exuberantly to the stairs.

“If it’s all the same to you boss, I’d like to stay down here a bit. Gotta clear all this road dust out of my throat.” Bull tipped his horns towards the bar and Lavellan waved him off.

“As long as you’re ready to ride when we come back down I don’t see why not.” Lavellan mock punched the qunari’s arm and slyly watched a look of frustration pass just beneath Seral’s outward expression. 

“Is that wise serah? My orders were very clear.” 

“Don’t worry about it. If anyone has a problem you can blame the whole thing on me,” dismissed Lavellan as he mounted the stairs. “Besides, Bull can smell trouble at sixty paces. If anything comes up, I’m sure he’ll join us.”

“Always boss,” assured Bull as he made his way to the bar. Luckily even drunk people had the good sense to get out of the warrior’s way.

“If… if you insist ser.” Seral conceded before following Lavellan upstairs. “It’s the last door on the left.” Upon reaching the aforementioned room Seral meted out a quick set of four hard raps and waited patiently for the door to be unlocked. Dorian and Blackwall exchanged knowing glances and Cole kept his eyes trained on the window at the end of the hall. The door swung open and all five of them walked inside.

 


End file.
